Better Late Than Never
by Val-Creative
Summary: She's never been past the borders of Oxfordshire. Not to her memory. Lord Asriel promises her a train ticket, to ride alongside him, as long as she washes up and dresses in the clothes he arranged for her. Tells her to be quick about it. Somewhere very special, Lyra guesses, but Lord Asriel won't say.


**.**

**.**

She's never been past the borders of Oxfordshire. Not to her memory.

Lyra doesn't mind — well, with the exception of hoping and praying to go North with Lord Asriel. There's no giving up on that dream for her. She pretends to be fighting off her and Lord Asriel's enemies while running in the snowdrifts of Queen Philippa's and dodging the urchins as they chase her to Walton Street, screeching, flinging rocks at her covered in hardened ice crystals.

Winter holds its breath, exhaling and dimming out. Lyra can already see the hoarfrost melting off Jordan College's ledgestones. Snowdrip trickles from alder buckthorns and white poplar trees. Birds return from their long journeys, flitting and chirping happily.

She feels that slow-melding heat all around her, whispering hints of fragrant blossoms. Green spring buds. Renewal.

_Promises._

Lord Asriel promises her a train ticket, to ride alongside him, as long as she washes up and dresses in the clothes he arranged for her. Tells her to be quick about it. Somewhere very special, Lyra guesses, that's where they're going — but Lord Asriel doesn't elaborate, looking away as he's interrupted by Thorold and four or five attendants during their brief, cordial discussion.

The fingers of his right hand sweeps across Lyra's back, urging her forward as he gently orders her out. It's only been a couple of hours since Lord Asriel returned into her life, full-bearded and solemn-eyed as she remembers so vividly, and Lyra's entire universe has already brightened measurably. To Mrs. Lonsdale's utter delight, Lyra sits obediently, although further growing impatient, through her scalding hot bath. Her face and ears (and the rest of Lyra) eventually cleansed and rinsed to a healthy, shiny pink.

Lyra throws on the pile of clothes left for her, a bit intrigued by the overall common appearance. But mostly she questions by the lack of restrictive femininity in the child-sized pair of brown-wool trousers, having difficulty with the wide buttons. A plain, long-sleeved cotton shirt in ivory. Lyra pulls on the royal blue sweater, feeling the itchy quality of more wool and looseness of the band collar.

She gathers her hair up, tucking chin-length, dark strands under a walking hat. Blue-cream-olive patterned on the fabric.

"You need to hurry," Pantalaimon mutters, ducking into Lyra's sweater-pocket as a cricket.

An irritable groan.

_"I know!"_

**.**

**.**

Fog drifts along the waterfront towards Oxford Railway Station. Lyra sprints to her destination, wheezing for air as she hitches herself up on the train-platform's steps. Lord Asriel gazes up from his silver-chained pocketwatch, frowning. "You're late."

"When is the train coming?" Lyra says dismissively, trying to calm her panting. Her little legs aching.

"Soon."

Lord Asriel's daemon yowls, stretching out herself as if tired, paw-by-paw.

That's when Lyra notices he's dressed as commonfolk as well. A military-style navy overcoat hangs over Lord Asriel's muscular frame and past his knees. Wide lapels. Broad in the shoulders and covered in a similiar wool to Lyra's trousers. Underneath there's a lot of dark grey tweed for his waistcoat and slacks and a long, unbuttoned jacket. A crisp white shirt and a burgundy tie. A woolen, grey cap with a stiff front brim.

He wants himself and Lyra to blend in, she supposes. To be disguised. But _why_? Why is that _important_?

Lyra gazes around to the empty train-platform. It's nearly sunset. Lord Asriel has a set of carry-on bags by his feet, one for him and one for her. "I thought the Master of Jordan College was coming with us…?" she asks, not bothering to hide her confusion.

"He's taken an airship," he answers shortly. Lord Asriel rechecks his pocketwatch.

"Why aren't _we_ taking an airship?"

"It's far more enriching in your life to travel among other people. Learn their stories. Speak to a stranger and understand the perspective they offer."

"What if I don't _want to_ speak to a stranger?" Lyra complains. She scuffs her newly polished boot, and ignores Pantalaimon saying something in an exasperated insect-drone of a voice from her pocket. "What if they're _mean_? And _why_ am I in trousers?"

A deep, huffing sigh. "Heavens be damned, child—must you question everything I say to you?"

She goes silent, narrowing her dark brown eyes at the imposing figure of Lord Asriel. Stelmaria huffs too, straightening her back and observing. Annoyance crackles through Lyra's nerves. "That's heresy," she murmurs in retaliation, Lyra's forefinger digging into a nostril.

Instead of arguing with her, Lyra's father gently pries her hand away. A thin look of disgust crosses his features.

"I've been summoned by a King's invitation. We're heading to one of the Royal Manors at the designated hour we have been given," he explains. The train rushes in, blasting clouds of steam. Lyra's ears ring with the oncoming, thunderous noise. "This will be a high-profile event with many wealthy philanthropists and Scholars and nobles of every rank. You'll be accompanying me as my only daughter and as my heir."

Lyra's eyes widen. She didn't know Lord Asriel was willing to be so open about this subject. To all of those important people. But she also does know that _everyone else_ had been aware of the truth before Lyra that Lyra was the child of Lord Asriel Belacqua.

"Will… will we be seeing the King of Brytain?" she whispers, awestruck.

He doesn't reply at first, peering over Lyra critically. Lord Asriel fixes the disarray of her textured, blue sweater, smoothing the material over the tops of Lyra's shoulders. The green iridescent cricket of Pantalaimon chirps inquisitively.

"And the Queen. And her children." After a moment, Lord Asriel notices the blackened, gleaming streak of ash to Lyra's palm. He tuts lowly. "So you will behave like your life depends on it this evening. It might very well be." The tip of Lord Asriel's tongue drags wetly over his first two fingers, resembling his big wild-cat of a daemon for a split-second, as he rubs the ash from Lyra's skin. "Understood?"

"Yes, Father."

Stelmaria gruff-laughs, her tawny leopard eyes crinkling in humour. Lord Asriel does the same, his nose crinkling. Lyra flushes.

"Good."

**.**

**.**

They'll arrive in Westminster within the hour.

Lyra refuses to leave her compartment-seat, gluing herself to the window. She's enraptured by the rolling green hills fading into village pubs and the lone, brick structure of St. Peter's church in Loudwater… to market towns and parshes and coaching inns dotted along the winding, concrete streets of Old Beaconsfield… right into Northolt where its historic and freestanding clock tower shadows over its residents, booming out every forlorn midnight hour…

The train itself is a clanging, beastly thing, trudging along the rails. Lyra scowls unpleasantly, getting her wrist snatched up by her father when Lord Asriel insists monotonously that they stretch their legs, dragging her out.

Most of the train-walls are cold and black steel upholstered by a deep plum velvet. She watches Lord Asriel engage in polite, friendly conversation with two men and one woman. When questioned about his travels, Lord Asriel plucks a brilliant and well-constructed lie out of nothing, talking at great length about visiting Lyra's "mother" hospitalised in London.

One of the men claims to be from Transylvania, working abroad. His daemon is male, very rare in itself, and a wolf considerably larger than Stelmaria with a thick, white-speckled coat snarled in knots. He wears a bowler ribboned in a pale blue-violet and a pale seersucker suit. Lyra has seen loads of old men with shockingly white hair while living with Scholars but never someone so _young_. He's younger than Lord Asriel. Nearly translucent flesh and eyes so black they seem like endless, hypnotic pits. He notices her staring with trepid fascination. Lyra ducks her head, missing the flash of his abnormally large molar teeth.

The woman stands taller than everyone else. Her complexion a topaz-brown and lovely, her jaw square. She says diplomatic affairs in Morocco, her homeland, prove difficult with the head of Tunisia's governing state wishing for blood vengeance. There's no telling what they will all do, but she's sure of peace. Lord Asriel asks more about it. The woman's daemon, a ring-tailed lemur, stares pointedly out the corridor's dampened window.

Lyra isn't sure what to make of the last one — the man hailing from New Denmark, plump and freckled and brightly ginger-haired. He's loud and slaps Lord Asriel's shoulder with his hand as if they were very good friends. Despite not knowing each other at all.

When Lyra is introduced to him, he seems flabbergasted to learn that she's Lord Asriel's kin. His honey badger daemon nearly falls backwards, screaking in animalistic indignation. The man assumed she was a "young bride" instead, guffawing and reddening so darkly in his humiliation when corrected. Lyra squints her eyes, flattening her lips, not sure what to make of that.

They all vanish back to their compartments.

"Oi! You!" comes a shout. Lyra turns her head to glimpse a man swaying violently in their direction. "You! You! _YOU_! I know _YOU_!"

Her heart races so fast that Pantalaimon wanders out of her sweater-pocket, climbing down and facing the stranger himself. He shifts into his familiar polecat form, getting in front of Lyra and even Stelmaria who blinks and appears unworried about this, hissing ferociously.

(Is this why Lord Asriel had them dress like this? So they wouldn't be harassed?)

Lord Asriel gazes over him, vacant-faced. "I'm afraid I do not know you, sir," he drawls.

"_LIAR_!" The man has a warthog for a daemon, and she howls and squeals along with his overly drunken rage. He reeks of jenniver spirit. His eyes, bloodshot and glittering with unshed tears, fill with hatred. "Liar! _LIAR_! Johnny, I'll _KILL_ you f'or this!"

When he comes for Lord Asriel, wielding a penknife, Lyra lurches from the wall and stomps onto the man's toes. He screams, pained, flailing and knocking himself sideways. She grabs the knife as it bounces onto the train's floor, clasping with both hands and pointing the copper-coloured blade at him. "He ain't no Johnny!" Lyra seethes, gritting her teeth. "Let him alone! Go!"

"You little _BITCH_—"

Right behind her, Lord Asriel folds his arms, giving the man a faintly smug look. "I would do as she says."

Whether it's because he is too stupidly drunk or not — it doesn't matter. The man commits a grave mistake in threatening Lyra. He lunges forward. Lord Asriel nudges her aside roughly, slamming his fist hard into the man's teeth. Breaking them apart.

Lyra stares at him offended.

_"I had him!"_

Her father seems cool and calm, as he wipes the fresh red blood off his knuckles with a handkerchief.

"I'm aware," Lord Asriel mumbles, examining the now unconscious but breathing man. He then rips the penknife out of Lyra's hands, throwing open a glass window-pane and lobbing it out. "No, you won't be needing that," Lord Asriel insists in the middle of his daughter yelling out a frustrated, appalled protest. "It's unbecoming of a proper young lady to be carrying a knife."

"… What happened to _befriending strangers_?" Lyra asks mockingly, jeering.

That earns her a look that would normally send any of the High Commanders reeling in sudden surges of fear. She deflects Lord Asriel's reproach with a stubborn, girlish pout until his mouth twitches into the vestiges of a benevolent smile.

**.**

**.**

Once they're off the train, Lord Asriel leads them to an inn.

Lyra discovers more clothes for her to wear. This time, an evening gown for someone her size. Pinks and creams with a hint of silver in the chiffon. She adjusts the low scoop neck so it's higher up, and fiddles with the puff sleeves. There's silvery-sheen satin belt to Lyra's waist. A full skirt with a petticoat beneath, and the flats pinch so horribly that Lyra kicks them off initially.

Her father hires one of the innkeeper's older daughters to help Lyra dress, babbling on how _pretty_ she looks, and how _soft_ Lyra's dark brown hair feels, and how so many have come into Westminster to visit the Royal MAnor at their extravagant party.

The way she speaks is like woving webs of dreams. Lyra tries to imagine herself as someone _important_, beautiful and admired, but only sees _herself_ in the mirror. A clever, rude little girl with dirtied fingernails and a habit for trouble. The innkeeper's daughter giggles, arranging Lyra's newly curled hair, pinning a headpiece of elegant, shimmery pearls round her head. She dabs a bit of melted, warm rouge onto Lyra's cheeks and then on the pillow of her lips, gently kissing her there as if for luck.

It's cold enough during nightfall where Lyra pulls on a velvet, silver cape, lined minklink. Its silver brooch clasps to Lyra's throat.

She waits for Lord Asriel in the parley room, swishing her cape absentmindedly. Pantalaimon leaps about as a tough-looking mountain lion. He pounces on the cape-end, attempting to bite it in his jaws and pull her round and round in circles until she's laughing dizzily.

"Come, no more playing," her father interrupts, beckoning to her from the hallway.

_"You're late."_

Lyra hasn't an idea if that's true but it's worth seeing Lord Asriel's blue eyes flicker with humour. He's wearing a kind of smooth, featureless white turtleneck underneath a one-button tuxedo jacket. Dark as night. His hair seems browner and handsomely slicked shiny with oils under the glow of naphtha-lamp, flattened to his crown. He seems as uncomfortable as Lyra feels.

She knows her father once had his titles and wealth and inheritance as a trueborn noble, as the sole heir of the Belacqua name. The only living Belacqua in existence. But… Lyra doesn't know if Lord Asriel had been… _happy_. Truly _happy_.

(Supposed it doesn't matter any longer.)

**.**

**.**

They arrive by horse-drawn carriage, as do some of the other guests who first arrived in Westminster and London by zeppelins.

Lyra stares stunned. In the distance is a palace of immaculate, brilliant marble. Its gates and walkways also marble-perfection. Thousands and thousands of wax, gold-glittering candles illuminate the rosy spaces from within.

"… It doesn't look that wonderful," she announces, fully exaggerating from skepticism. One of Lord Asriel's eyebrows lift. "I bet your manor was a hundred stories tall and full of diamonds and goldstone. I bet it had sharp iron pikes where you left the bodies of invaders." Lyra suddenly turns to him, gasping in excitement. "Did you build a moat? For the thieves came to steal your riches? Or did you hang them?"

"Nothing quite as barbaric," he says, the corners of his mouth smiling. "A simple rifle paired with marksmanship will suffice."

"Was it nice? Before they took it?"

They being the Consistorial Court of Discipline. A device created by the Magisterium to keep all of their thoughts and beliefs aligned to a senseless worship. Lyra half-regrets bringing it up when the light fades out of Lord Asriel's expression. He observes the nightfall around them, as if contemplating something far beyond it. A dying ember of his _memory_.

"You could walk the moors after dawnfall and feel like a king by his own right."

Lyra tries to imagine that — her father, years ago, proud and unconquerable. Walking his estates. Lord Asriel said he used to carry her as a baby through the countless, regal gardens winding past the hedges, using what little time Lord Asriel had to spend it with his baby daughter and talk to her about their future.

That, one day, she would belong to something _greater_ than lands or fortunes.

Her favorite place of all was the Botanical Gardens in Jordan. How peaceful Lyra felt. How the scent of flowers and of warm weather eased her mind.

"That's enough fantasising," Lord Asriel speaks up, crouching down in front of her. The ends of his tuxedo's tail-coat nearly brush the greying, wet cobblestones. "I need you to be careful tonight. Do as you're told. _Listen_. Above all else, _listen_ to what's happening around you and do not trust the word of anyone you may encounter." His fingers touch Lyra's chin, gripping softly. "You're a Belacqua," he reminds her, and Lyra can feel every particle of his seriousness and fondness. "We made our way in this world by keeping faith in ourselves and in each other. So I need you to trust me, Lyra."

"I_ do trust you_…" she whispers. Lord Asriel studies her little, solemn face, and he visibly slumps with relief.

"That's a good girl."

Lyra closes her eyes when his lips dryly press to her forehead. She slips her arms out from under her cape, leaning in, hugging Lord Asriel's middle. There's nobody left around them. Lyra can only hear the humming of low anbaric currents from the roads and the watery sounds of a geyser nearby. "I thought being a Belacqua meant we could so whatever we want…" Lyra muffles out.

"Under normal circumstances, I would agree," he rumbles out. She doesn't let go, feeling Lord Asriel's hand slowly, lightly rub down her arm. "But this isn't Jordan College… and you're getting older. That means I cannot protect you forever."

_"I can."_

There's so much conviction in Lyra's voice that he hesitates.

"Can what?"

"Protect us," Lyra declares, grinning with all of her teeth. She peers down teasingly to her daemon, still as powerful as a mountain lion, who looks up at her with mild bemusement. "See! Even Pan will help when he settles into a warthog! Won't you, Pan?" He roars out in disapproval, shifting quickly into a meadowlark to smack her cheek, and then into a wasp to buzz in Lyra's ear.

As they argue, Stelmaria chirrups noisily to Lord Asriel, sharing her thought with him. He reaches down to scratch her neck.

**.**

**.**

Two of the palace-servants greet them with bland utterances. They lead on, holding ornate oil lamps with panes of pale blue. Lyra runs up, gaping and poking a burning-hot pane. She yelps. Her father's hand tugs on her silvery cape, bringing her back.

Lyra's eyes adjust to the soft-pitched lighting once through the entrance-way.

A grand hall, brimming of shadows and aged, lavished portraits of Kings and Queens… Princes and Princesses… and all those who died before them, extends into where the reception is being held. A magnificent, candlelit room that could fit a whole section of terranced houses from Jericho if it wanted.

Remembering what Lord Asriel told her, she wanders off on her own.

All of the embroidered, floral-printed dresses reminds Lyra of the gyptian boats. They had their own colors and their own designs. She adored the rose-and-lily pattern off of Piet van Poppel's house boat, copying it down and attempting to sew it onto one of her own new, white dresses. Having no such talent for embroidery, due to a lack of practice and patience, Lyra flung her ruined, thread-broken dress into the fireplace's ashes.

She doesn't see Lord Asriel anywhere, but does find another child here or there.

Lyra pretends to be an adventurer from far, far away, regaling her stories of fighting cliff-ghasts and Tartars in the Northern wilds, to a crowd of noble children and orphans from the kitchens trying to not get caught. Princess Marie and her golden-red fox daemon also listen with rapt, breathless attention, having introduced themselves beforehand. She even wants to inspect the opal, diamanté and sterling ring on Lyra's thumb.

There's a special Turkish poison inside the hollow gem, Lyra tells her eagerly, basking in the princess's curiosity. From a serpent so elusive and so deadly that no-one dare speak its very name for the fear of bringing it in their path. Princes Marie swore she would not, if only Lyra told her.

"You," comes a new shouting voice. Lyra turns her head to a red-cheeked man gesturing for her. "You there, yes. Child."

She approaches, skipping and beaming up at him. "Yess'sir?"

A horrified clucking noise from one of the noblewomen. "That's Count Ramsey of Westminster, young lady," she scolds Lyra harshly, the dyed, indigo-dark feathers in her curly hair quivering like her honeybee daemon floating lazily. "Where are your manners?"

"Don't bother," Count Ramsey mutters over his wine glass. "This is Lord Asriel's bastard. I doubt she knows what grape shears are, let alone know who anyone_ important_ here is." Dull, uneasy laughter flutters around them. Lyra narrows her eyes furiously, opening her mouth, but she's cut off by the wave of his ruby-glittering hand. "No, no, you're quite done. Yes, this is the spawnling of Mrs. Coulter's _infidelity_ with Lord Asriel Belacqua. He murdered Mr. Coulter over an accident they created together." He curls a lip, his shrike daemon preening. There's a odour of hot, moist sickness clinging to him. Sickly sweet.

"She will never inherit the family name of Belacqua—not that any living soul _should_ want it. It's far beyond disgraced." Count Ramsey takes another mouthful of wine. "All of that respect and eminence over one _unfavourable_ mistake. How dreadful."

The other adults pointedly ignore Lyra or murmur their agreement, and she — she's never felt nothing before.

_Nothing at all._

A endles, black pit wells open inside her like the eyes of the Transylvanian. Lyra's shock runs so deep that she can only stand there, teary-eyed and confounded, her face revealing nothing. Because _nothing_ is all that is there. Nothing. Not even her witch-oil fire.

**.**

**.**

Lyra doesn't know when she ran outside, but finds herself cold.

She seats herself in a yew tree, right on the grounds towards the main gatehouse, and hits her head to the bark repeatedly. To feel _something_. Her elbow length silk gloves muddied. She rips them off, one by one, her lips trembling wide apart. Lyra tears off her glamorous, pearl headband afterwards, flinching as the many pins embedded in her dark brown curls yank at her scalp.

"It's okay to cry…" Pantalaimon mumbles, cuddling around her neck as an ermine. "Lyra, it's okay…"

_"Lyra?"_

Her father's voice echoes below. She wipes off her cheeks frantically with the backs of her hands. Lyra peeks out into the darkness. Lord Asriel, dour and concerned, witnesses as she climbs off the yew-branch. His arms go out at the last moment, cradling her, holding Lyra against his chest as she buries her entire, blotchy pink face into his tuxedo-shoulder.

"I know what happened," Lord Asriel whispers. "We're leaving."

"I don't _ever_ want to come back…"

"Look at me, child." Lyra does reluctantly, peering into his face and sniffling. "What did I say to you about tonight?"

"… _Don't trust what anyone says_," she mutters.

"Exactly," Lord Asriel says firmly. "When I die, you will inherit everything I have. All of the money I've gained. All of the property. But, _your name_, Lyra… the Belacqua name was always yours. From the moment you came into this world."

Lyra's mouth scrunches up. Tears glisten in dark brown eyes. "He said I was a _mistake_…"

A vein in Lord Asriel's forehead bulges. He inhales sharply. Stelmaria paces beside his knees, making a low, savage noise of anger. "Never," he rasps, meeting Lyra's gaze. "The only mistake was coming here and putting you through this."

**.**

**.**

She doesn't know if there was another reason Lord Asriel wanted to come. Maybe for funding his expeditions. Maybe not.

Lyra waits in the grand portrait hall by herself and Pantalaimon, away from the guests. There's nothing more she wants now than to be back in Oxford. She wants to be dressed normally and sleep in her own bed. Lord Asriel can stay with her, for a day or two, and check he has all of his equipment, before her father decides to take Lyra to the North with him. He _has to_ this time.

A young woman, twenty or so, comes by. She has soft, pale skin and a pile of auburn hair bejeweled with iridescent gems. Her dress is a similar pale blue to the palace-servant's lamps Lyra saw earlier. "Oh my heavens. What happened to your gown, my dear?"

"I tore it when I was climbing… the yew tree…"

The woman's countenance seems gentle. Motherly. Lyra trusts her almost immediately. "Was it hard? Climbing?"

Lyra shakes her head wildly. "I climb trees all of the time," she boasts. "There isn't one tree at Jordan College I haven't climbed. Or tried to. I'm the fastest. I even beat Dick Orchard once at a tree-climbing race. He's the fastest out of the boys in Oxford."

"How delightful," the woman says, smiling so pleased that Lyra's mood brightens.

Her soft, alabaster-white hands rest to Lyra's cheeks.

"What's your name, little one?"

"Lyra." She broods thinking about Count Ramsey, stepping out of her grasp. "I'm… Lord Asriel's daughter."

"You look like you've been crying." Lyra doesn't answer, glancing away sullen. "Did someone upset you? Your father?"

_"No."_

"Speak truthfully."

There's a hint of authority in the woman's sweet, seraphic voice.

"Count Ramsey," Lyra says. "He… said I was a bastard."

"I heard there was a commotion earlier but not of the nature. I'm very sorry, little one. Men can be such awful creatures, especially ones who believe they are more powerful than others. It turns their hearts to rot." The woman's hands return, soothing over Lyra's flushed face. "Believe me, he shall be sorry for his behavior towards one of my honoured guests."

"Lyra, we—" Lord Asriel pauses, staring over both of them. "Forgive me, your Majesty. I did not realise she sought you out."

The woman smiles again. "No, no, I did her. Do not trouble yourself."

A thrum of amazement pulses in Lyra's throat.

_"You're…"_

"Queen Victoria, it's a pleasure to finally meet you."

He bows.

"Thank you for visiting us, Lord Asriel. I know you were close with the King's grandfather, King Richard, as a boy. Your ideals matched so perfectly. It's a tragedy to have lost him to the infection after his victory in battle."

Lord Asriel clears his throat. "I did not see King Edward, Your Majesty. You must think me of poor manners."

"He's aware you're here. My husband is quite busy with the Council of the State." Queen Victoria turns herself back to her original companion, delicately and warmly cupping Lyra's hands. "Lyra, thank you for your honesty."

"Thank you, Your Majesty." Lyra bows instead of curtsying. Lord Asriel groans.

The Queen only seems fascinated by her.

"She's precious, Lord Asriel. Keep her close," she proclaims as Lyra vanishes towards the entrance-way, going a little ways with Stelmaria guarding her. Her bright green eyes land on him. "Should anything happen to that child—I will hold you _personally responsible_ for it," Queen Victoria's cheerful tone fades. "Marisa speaks so highly of Lyra. I want to see both her and her daughter happy."

To his credit, Lord Asriel nods and kisses the Queen's royal ring-finger as she lifts it.

"I wouldn't want to disappoint the Queen's lover…"

"You forget yourself, my Lord." Queen Victoria bestows him a soft warning look. "Where has Ramsey gone to, I wonder… ?" she adds.

"I have heard from the Master of Jordan College and several others that he has been recently absent." Lord Asriel's mouth stretches into a feral grin. "We live in troubling times. People seem to keep going missing in London—wouldn't you say, Your Majesty?"

She smirks.

"Indeed."

**.**

**.**

"I know, I know…" Lord Asriel sighs, joining his daughter by the tram-car popped open. "I'm late."

Lyra's lovely little face crinkles with her grin.

"S'okay," she whispers, nudging into him when Lord Asriel folds his arm protectively to the back of Lyra's shoulders.

**.**

**.**


End file.
